Hieros Gamos
by delectate
Summary: postseries, A/R. Sequel to The Burning Time. Spiral of persuasion, twists until freefall.
1. Prologue: Dogs of War

hieros gamos: (Greek, _ιερός γάμος_) sacred marriage

_Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs. _(Matthew 19:14)

_Domestic fury and fierce civil strife shall cumber all the parts of Italy,  
__All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds:  
__And the spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a monarch's voice,  
__Cry 'Havoc!', and let slip the dogs of war.  
_—"Julius Caesar", William Shakespeare

One world, it's a battleground  
One world, and we will smash it down  
One world  
— "dogs of war", pink floyd

* * *

* * *

**)O(**

_Let them come to me._

Four days after the incident in Siena, video footage of the events that transpired in _il Campo_ was released—by an unknown source—into the limitless void of cyberspace. Witches from all over the world were witness to the _auto de fe_ ritual, the failed execution attempt, and the subsequent and explosive release of power at the stake. They heard her message, her normally soft-spoken voice ringing through the night air with the clarity of conviction; they heard her promise that she would not allow the hunting to continue. They saw her demonstrate lethal and destructive force, following her proclamation. The towering wall of flame that turned everything in its path to ash convinced them.

By boat, by air, and by land they crossed the borders of European nations to come to her. They made plans to enter Italy incognito under SOLOMON's radar to find her, each with different agendas of their own. Some came to seek answers from the Eve, some to assist her; some to see what she could teach them. Some came to simply find out if she truly existed after all.

**)O(**

_Interesting. _He was definitely on the right trail.

His fingers flying over the keyboard at his desk, Michael Lee paused only briefly in his typing to adjust the amber-tinted spectacles on his nose before resuming his work. He'd gotten a quick but fleeting glimpse of something terribly intriguing the other day on the web, and he was retracing his leads and steps to track it down once more, for further analysis. If his suspicions were correct…

Karasuma appeared over his left shoulder, brandishing a cup of steaming coffee. "Want some, Michael?" she offered amiably, but he shook his head.

"Not right now." The keys clicked furiously, and she became entranced at the windows popping up all over his screen.

"What's this?"

"You'll see in a moment." He partly resented the intrusion upon his work—always leaning over his shoulder to gawk, these analog humans—but the pride he felt as a result of his online sleuthing far outweighed his annoyance at the moment, and he allowed Karasuma to watch. "I think I'm on the right track this time."

As expected, now Sakaki became interested from across the room. "Oi, what's going on over there?" Michael resisted the urge to give a rueful grin at the young man's predictability. Anytime Karasuma's curiosity was piqued, Sakaki's wasn't far behind. It was almost as though he were shadowing her, waiting to see what would spark her interest.

"Just-one-second, _ku-da-saiii_," Michael responded in a singsong voice, still typing as he exhaled loudly through the side of his mouth.

"Why don't you just tell us what it is?" Karasuma asked, slightly suspicious. He huffed in response.

"You can't even wait a few minutes to find out?"

"Michael, you haven't been _this_ excited about _anything_, for over a month now," she noted half-teasingly, as Sakaki came up to stand at the hacker's opposite shoulder and peered at the monitor. "You can't expect us not to wonder what it is that you're so worked up abou—"

Michael tapped a final key, triumphant. "HA!" His video player flashed up onto the screen and began to play.

At first there was static. A picture appeared, out of focus and grainy; it looked as though the person behind it was adjusting the settings as the video recorder was pointed at the ground. The viewpoint finally righted itself, but the handheld recording was shaky and choppy, and obviously not conducted by an experienced media representative. Sakaki gave a grunt of disapproval and Michael shushed him, attempting to listen to the voices on the recording.

The picture refocused, and the clarity improved as the person holding the video recorder finally found his optimal position. But it was the vision at the center of the screen that immediately silenced all three watching at the computer terminal.

In some sort of nighttime torch-lit ceremony, Robin—unconscious, her head bowed, but with her unmistakable pilgrim's shift and chestnut-blonde hair loose around her—was tied to a stake.

Realizing the nature of the ritual being shown to them, Karasuma's hand flew instantly to her mouth. "Oh my _God_," she whispered through it. Sakaki and Michael, faces fallen, stared in astonishment at the recording.

Sakaki leaned in close to the monitor to peer at it, disbelieving. "_Robin?!_" he asked incredulously; and Michael knew then that he'd believed the lie told them, that Robin and her stoic ward had perished in the Factory's collapse so many months ago.

On video, a blond man in his early twenties stepped into the picture beside the unconscious girl and began to sweep up the long lengths of her hair in his hands. He bound it loosely on either side of her head.

"What's he doing?" Michael wondered aloud, squinting through his frames at the screen. He snuck a glance at Karasuma, still with her hand over her mouth but soundless, her eyes riveted to the picture before them.

Sakaki was still reeling from the sudden revelation. "Do you guys know what this means?! It means they're alive! They escaped the Factory! If Robin's alive, that must mean that Amon is too, and—"

"It's the Testament," Karasuma said simply and sharply, to answer Michael's question; and all fell silent.

The audio finally came through on the recording just as the blond man on the video roughly plucked Robin's necklace from her limp body. He walked off-screen, and the single voice that had been speaking before—most likely a priest—slowly became a chorus of chanted Latin phrases, followed by the low rumbling of an unknown language.

Eyes glued to the monitor once more, the group was silent for several more moments before Sakaki worked up the courage to quietly ask the obvious. "Testament of what?"

The camera at last panned away from Robin at the stake, slowly revealing hundreds of armed SOLOMON paratroopers, priests, and clergy alike surrounding the pyre. On the outskirts of the darkened square could be seen the hulking shadows of military tanks.

"The Testament of Solomon," Karasuma whispered. The others felt their blood momentarily running cold.

They were quiet as the remainder of the recording played out on Michael's media viewer. The ritual was long, and involved complicated chanting and symbolic gesturing from whom was most likely the Archbishop; but the viewer returned every time to reveal Robin once more, bound and helpless. She did not just look unconscious—she looked to be already dead.

Sakaki began fidgeting over Michael's shoulder, as the darkening screen showed candles being snuffed by robed priests. "Are you…sure you guys want to watch this?" he asked uncertainly; and suddenly as Michael saw the flash of torches spark into life around the girl tied to the stake, he was not so certain that he wanted to, either.

Karasuma audibly sucked in her breath as the priests lowered their flaming torches to the woodpile. Michael saw her turn her head slightly, as if she were trying to force herself not to watch.

The camera jolted slightly. When it focused again on Robin and the stake, the fire was approaching her; but something was different. Karasuma pointed at the screen. "Look—look at her—her chest is moving."

A violent wind had sprung up within the square. The cameraman began swinging the viewfinder to the tune of the worried and frightened shouts of the Cabal, in their attempt to find the source of the power making itself known. Michael felt himself growing dizzy, as the point of view swayed and shook wildly; finally the camera focused again on the blond male Witch as he struggled to hold his dark blue hood over his head. He pointed at the sky. "_Guarda!_"

The view lurched in the direction he pointed, to the Duomo, in time to see four paratroopers sailing out of the top floor's window onto the roof below. This time the cameraman himself spoke, in a shocked expletive. "_Cazzo!_"

_Il Campo_ was in complete bedlam. Paratroopers were shouting, arming themselves, aiming their weapons at the tower; others continued to turn their guns toward Robin in the center of the burning pyre. The wind became even stronger, and scattered the firewood out from under her.

Then, there was a light—this time so blinding and brilliant that the cameraman himself yelped, swinging the camera away from the source. The entire square reverberated with the frenzied and panicked cries of SOLOMON agents. The viewfinder righted itself in time to witness paratroopers, in full riot gear and holding semi-automatic weaponry, falling to the ground; some unconscious, some holding their heads and writhing as though in pain. Over the noise, the cameraman cursed once more before uttering an awed and hushed prayer.

"_Madre di Dio_."

The light was moving. The camera followed it, on its trail through the night sky—although Michael doubted as he watched that the agent behind the videocam was continuing to look through it, as it was brighter than looking upon the sun itself.

It alighted on the platform over the unlit pyre, where Robin had awakened, shrugging herself out of the bindings as she opened her eyes. She was free of the confines of the stake, and she was openly weeping, pressing her hands to her mouth in a futile effort to stifle her sobs. She threw her arms around the figure encased in light as it embraced her.

Miho's eyes narrowed, as she struggled to make sense of the vision on the monitor. "_Amon?_" Sakaki simply looked on in mute astonishment, his mouth agape.

Michael was wordless as well, staring at the screen in shock. Amon had awakened to his Craft.

Robin was now gazing out at the sea of agents surrounding what was left of the smoking pile around the stake, addressing them directly in a clear voice. "Refuse their bidding and enter into a covenant with us," she instructed. "Refuse to hunt, all of you—and we will have no quarrel."

Someone in the crowd challenged her authority, and she responded: "Because I am she, whom you have been waiting for…and as long as you continue to hunt your own kind, I will not stand for it."

Again there was a shout, a cry of "Blasphemy!" from the gathering around them; and one of the members of the clergy—the Archbishop himself—raged at her, encouraging the Cabal to destroy her, and demanding that if she did not relinquish her will she should be wiped out.

Robin's voice was calm, cold steel. "_My will is __**mine**_."

And then, there was fire; together with a scorching wind, it devoured the entire square in a devastatingly hellish storm. The SOLOMON agents and troopers who had taken up arms against them became nothing more than dust. The screams and cries were deafening.

The flames were finally extinguished by a whirling vortex of wind; the camera recorded every last second of it.

And then, there was static.

At STN-J, the three remained staring at the computer screen for several moments after the media player had flashed off. Finally Michael looked up at Sakaki and Miho hovering over him. They met his eyes with the same stunned look of surprise, awe, and confusion etched across their features.

A warning window flashed up on another of Michael's monitors nearby. He attended to it quickly, rolling his chair over to it at the other end of his desk. What he read made him gasp; Sakaki and Miho were quick to approach to once more read over his shoulder.

**DIRECTIVE # 25280602**

**EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY (9PM GST JUNE 3****RD****), ALL STN-JAPAN BRANCH PERSONNEL ARE TO BE REASSIGNED **

**TO SOLOMON HQ IN ROME. HIGH-PRIORITY TARGETS CONFIRMED. DEBRIEFING WILL**

**COMMENCE UPON ARRIVAL IN ITALY.**

**AWAITING CONFIRMATION OF RECEIPT OF MESSAGE.**

**ACCEPT**

**)O(**

A figure strolled almost casually through the ranks of several armed men in an elaborately decorated hallway. His speech was nonchalant, affable, as though he were speaking to close friends over mimosas at brunch.

"You are reputed to now be SOLOMON's finest," he was saying, "a title given to you only recently. But regardless—because of this, I will be selecting some of you for an extremely important assignment."

Above them, on the flat-panel screens adorning the walls, two pictures flashed overhead; STN profiles. The first was a young European girl; chestnut-blonde hair, green eyes. The second one, a male of mixed Asian and Caucasian descent; obviously older, with long dark hair and grey eyes.

"Two very powerful Witches," the man went on as he browsed along the row of agents, "both with powers the likes of which most of our top Hunters have never seen; already they have disintegrated a legion of approximately 100 paratroopers and clergy members with apparent relative ease."

From his pocket, the man pulled out a fine Cuban cigar, which he toyed with in his hands as he walked. "They are unpredictable, and extremely dangerous. They are purposefully targeting SOLOMON agents, and are now highest priority on the target list. If selected, you will have all of the tools available to the organization readily at your disposal. We will hold nothing back.

"Remember first and foremost that you are bounty Hunters, and that the reward for successfully completing your mission will be tenfold what you are anticipating. But do not blind yourself to the situation at hand; these Witches are directly responsible for the deaths of many agents—most notably, my entire underground network of operatives that was functioning as a Coven."

He turned, and in profile the men could see the shock of blond hair, the ice-blue eyes; the slight burn mark along his right cheek.

"Now," he began, raising the cigar to his mouth to light it, and thus disguising his smirk. "Any volunteers?"

* * *

Translations: 

kudasai: (Japanese) please  
guarda: (Italian) Look!  
cazzo: (Italian) holy shit!  
madre di Dio: (Italian) mother of God


	2. Chapter 1: Behind the Wheel

_Oh little girl  
There are times when I feel  
I'd rather not be  
The one behind the wheel_

_Come  
Pull my strings  
Watch me move  
I do anything_  
—"behind the wheel", depeche mode

* * *

**)O(**

**Toulon, France**

**June 5****th****, 1:10pm**

Sitting next to her in such a compact space, he was overwhelmed by the scents of her skin and loose, unbound hair—faint hints of green tea extract and lemon verbena from her soap and shampoo, respectively. It had been several days since he'd allowed himself to get so close to her; he'd nearly forgotten what she smelled like. It was a pleasing combination, he decided.

Her voice was soft and acquiescent. "Hold it where? Here?" Her hand moved and reached, grasping.

"Put your hand around it," he responded authoritatively. "No, not partially; all the way around it. Grip it tight." She did, and he gave a slight sigh. "That's better. Get a feel for it in your hand."

"It's almost too big for my hand."

Amon resisted both the urge to smirk, as well as to comment on her seemingly-innocent innuendo. Sometimes it was too easy. "Now keep your left foot firmly on the clutch. You're going to switch your right one from the brake to the accelerator, like I told you. While the clutch is depressed, put the car in first gear."

There was a grinding of gears as she did, and she winced at the sound. The small European sports car shuddered and then stalled. Robin expelled a loud sigh, glancing over at him apologetically.

He was patient. "It's all right. You shifted too soon, and you released the clutch too fast…try it again."

Grateful, she ducked her head and restarted the car, putting the gearshift once more in neutral. She wore a look of determined concentration as she settled her feet on the pedals.

"Clutch first," he reminded her gently, and watched in carefully guarded fascination as her small pearly teeth bit down lightly on her lower lip. It brought to mind another memory of her performing the same act in a much different, much more intimate setting; and Amon swallowed past a mouth gone slightly dry.

The engine of the Barchetta emitted a smooth purr. Robin held the gearshift securely and switched into first. She pressed onto the accelerator, releasing the clutch slowly, as he'd instructed her; and after a couple seconds of revving, the car abruptly lurched forward into gear. "_Ah!_"

Her ecstatic look was short-lived, though, as within seconds the engine began to whine with the increased speed. She swung a panicked glance at him next to her.

"Second," he suggested, with a note of urgency.

Robin nodded and attempted to comply, depressing the clutch and trying to shift. "Ungh, it's stuck," she muttered, and threw her body forward with the force of the action. She gasped in surprise as the movement paid off, and the car accelerated smoothly into second gear. She turned to him and beamed.

Amon allowed his features to relax slightly as his eyes met hers. "_Bene_."

She was positively radiant with the affirmation of his praise, and turned her gaze back to the road ahead of her. The Barchetta proceeded to traverse the circular driveway, picking up gradual speed. Without encouragement she shifted the Italian sports car easily into third, and Amon placed his hand on the back of her driver's seat, slightly nervous.

They were only going thirty-two kilometers per hour, but he felt it might be too fast too soon. Better to err on the side of caution—she would have plenty of time to practice her speed later on. "Now, downshift back into first."

"Downshift," Robin repeated mechanically, mentally rehearsing the scenario, and clutched again. She put the gearshift into neutral and attempted to relocate first, but the gears protested with a grind. In her confusion, her foot slipped from the pedal.

Amon's lips twitched. "_Clutch_," he reminded her sternly, drawing the word out in a semi-amused sort of way; but it was too late. The car shuddered and stalled. Robin abruptly stomped on the brake, lurching them both slightly forward.

She bowed her head toward the wheel, obviously embarrassed and frustrated. Amon watched her wordlessly.

"I want to try again." There was penitence as well as an iron-clad determination in her voice.

He regarded the view outside of the car before undoing his seatbelt. "I think that's enough for today, Robin."

She glowered to herself. "You're disappointed in me."

"_Chigau_." He shook his head, the slightest smirk on his face and evident in his perfunctory comment, and she turned to look at him in disbelief. "I thought you did very well."

Amon still hadn't become fully accustomed to the gentle, openly adoring gazes she bestowed upon him; but whereas once such a look coming from her would have unnerved him, he was much better equipped now to handle it. The sight of her half-smile sparked a hint of warmth, becoming a low simmer as an idea formed in his mind.

_It's been a while. _A week on the run, as they tried to temporarily settle themselves, had subsequently thrown him into soldier-mode; they'd barely had a chance to react to their new and infinitely more complicated situation following the events in Siena. He had stifled his emotions, having been preoccupied with securing transportation, necessities, and a safe hiding location. He hadn't let anything distract him for days.

Perhaps, as he'd done before, he was overdoing it.

"In fact, I recall having made you a promise," he deadpanned, turning his body in the passenger seat to face her directly. "A reward, for doing so well on your first try."

"Reward?" Robin looked at him quizzically, obviously not recollecting anything of the sort.

He leaned over the middle console towards her, deliberately unhurried, holding her gaze. She was frozen like a deer framed in headlights. Her lips were slightly parted in surprise at his actions, and Amon took full advantage of the fact as he cradled her head in his hand, brushing a chestnut-blonde lock from her face and behind her ear, tilting her chin up with his fingers before slowly bringing his mouth to hers.

Robin gasped against his lips as a shock of his hair fell like a curtain around her face. She hadn't expected the kiss, but it was not unwelcome; and she soon found herself closing her eyes, giving herself over to sensation. He deepened it, probing gently with his tongue, and she melted into a delicious paralysis—enough so that her foot left the floor brake, and the car began to slowly inch forward in a neutral roll.

Amon interrupted the kiss long enough to abruptly pull the parking brake, stopping the car with a slight crunching sound and a short lurch.

"Oh," Robin breathed quietly, sheepishly; and he let his lips curl into a gently amused smirk before undoing her seatbelt and then tilting his head back towards hers to resume what he'd started. She enthusiastically returned his kiss, bringing her hands to cup his face.

But even as she tasted his mouth against hers, felt herself yielding to it, drowning in it—something didn't feel right. Something nagged at her subconscious mind, dragging her reluctantly to the surface of awareness. She opened her eyes.

Slowly, gradually, Robin pulled back from the kiss, even as Amon's lips tried to follow hers in retreat. She studied his face as she held her own away from him, searching his features for something intangible, not even fully understanding what it was that she was looking for.

His eyes opened and widened slightly as he saw her expression, initial displeasure giving way to concern. "Robin?" he asked. "What is it?"

The words were barely out of his mouth before there was a sharp crack splitting the air—the sound of breaking glass from the rear windshield of the car—and Amon's neck snapped forward into the dashboard with the velocity of the bullet penetrating his head. Her face was spattered with a fine spray of his blood; it slid down her cheek, dripping into her eye.

Robin pulled back a horrified gasp, ready to scream—

And as if time had done a quick rewind and loop, she found herself hurtled violently back into the previous moment. Her eyes flew open in amazement. She was still kissing Amon.

She wrenched her mouth away from his, breathless with fear. He held her fast by the shoulders. "_Nani?_" he asked abruptly, but he could see the terror in her eyes.

Without answer she threw herself over the middle console and tackled him, pushing him down into a supine position in the passenger seat. He grunted his disapproval—but the sound turned into a hushed curse a second later when a sniper's bullet punctured the rear windshield, whizzing by the space his head had previously occupied.

He lay underneath her, speechless with shock, as Robin covered him with her body and panted for breath. "_Amon,_" she whispered in quiet triumph, her soft breath and her hair brushing against his face.

More shots followed through the broken windshield, pummeling through the side windows; and Amon pulled her head into his shoulder, sheltering it from flying glass. The sound of multiple screeching tires could be heard nearby. _SOLOMON_.

As if she'd heard his unspoken thought, Robin wondered aloud: "How? So fast—"

Still covering her head, he pushed his legs over the console from underneath her to the driver's side. "I want you to buckle yourself in and keep your head down," he breathed into her ear, calmly and authoritatively, "and don't do anything until I tell you to."

"Let me drive," she whispered imploringly.

"_Iie_."

This was not just 'no', this was the negation that she knew brooked no argument with him. He pulled the lower half of her body over the gearshift into the passenger seat, simultaneously shifting himself into the driver's side, ducking his head as he did. His boots found the pedals, and the sports car's engine started up with a roar.

At the same moment, four dark unmarked sedans boxed them in on all sides and blocked their escape.

"_Ch'kso_," she heard him mutter, before he gunned the motor and the car pealed out, tires screeching on asphalt. They only made it forward ten feet, before they went crashing broadside into the sedan in front of them. Robin cried out at the impact, covering her head.

Still ducking as low as he could below the dash, Amon threw the car into reverse, pealing out in the opposite direction and smashing into another sedan behind them. She yelped again. Through the commotion Robin could hear shouts and bullets and gunfire, all of which rained down upon their Barchetta.

He angled the wheel as best he could, and rammed the car in front of them again. The force of the crash was enough so that the sedan lurched forward and sideways, giving them an exit—and he took it. Metal scraped upon metal as they squeezed past the dark car, taking off several layers of paint from both in the process. Amon gunned the motor and they sped off, out of the circular driveway and onto the road. Robin could hear the popping of gunfire and the shrieking of tires as the sedans gave chase.

She looked up at him as he sat upright again in the seat and watched as he threw the gearshift back and forth, the car speeding down the residential block, his eyes darting about the street as he formulated an escape route. His raven-black hair whipped his face as though in a wind tunnel; their passenger windows were nothing more than jagged chunks of glass on the door frames.

Her own hair flying about her wildly, Robin peered out from behind her seat at the rear view and spied the cars in hot pursuit behind them. She felt Amon's hand press down upon her head and shelter her, just as more gunshots tore through what was left of the rear windshield. "Keep your head down," he ordered, above the roar of the engine and the wind rushing past them.

"I can stop them with my craft," she reasoned, over the noise. He looked at her once more, and nodded his assent.

She turned back to the rear window to face the pursuing cars, her eyes fixed on the hood of the closest one; but in her peripheral vision she spied several people on the sidewalks near the street, staring in amazement at the car chase unfolding in front of them. Any damage to the sedans, and they'd go careening into the throngs of bystanders—

"I can't," she cried, turning back to him. "There are too many people on the road."

He nodded again, shifting into fourth gear at the same time, his attention diverted. Robin looked past him out at an adjacent street and suddenly gasped loudly. "_Amon!_"

He turned the wheel too late at her response, only seconds before another black sedan slammed headfirst into the driver's side. The sports car buckled at the side, fishtailing and nearly spinning out of control; but Amon regained the wheel and accelerated, leaving the black sedan crippled in the street, blocking a few of the other vehicles from pursuit. He grimaced as he clutched his rib cage with a free hand that came away stained with red. His driving became erratic.

Robin uncurled herself from the impact. She noticed his expression and reached to look at his injury, but a car pulled out directly in front of their path and he restrained her from doing so. "Hold on!"

Amon swerved again, and the sports car reared up onto a sidewalk, through a small wooden guardrail—manned by a security guard who tried his best to wave them down, shouting "_È__coutez!_ "_—_and into a thankfully-empty outdoor parking lot. The black sedans followed relentlessly, tires screeching over pavement. They accelerated through the lot, avoiding haphazard curbs, and finally ended up back on another residential road.

As they did, they could hear sirens. "We've attracted the police," Robin observed, and Amon could see the lights flashing behind them. Perhaps unaware of the nature of SOLOMON, more than one Toulon police car cut off a chasing black sedan. Robin watched in surprise as the sedans retaliated, smashing the bumpers of the French police, and shoving at least two of them out of their way.

There were fewer pedestrians on the street. She concentrated her aim, her green eyes flashing; and a split-second later two of the sedans' front wheels erupted in bright yellow flames. The rubber melted and exploded under the heat, and the cars fishtailed and spun out, now useless. Two sedans and three French police cars still followed.

Amon pressed the gas impatiently, pushing the Barchetta to 185 and then 190 km/h. Robin's grip on the door increased in tenacity. "Why are you speeding up? There are fewer of them, now…"

His eyes flicked to the rear view mirror and back to the road again. "The Toulon police are using the WRX model of the Impreza," he noted brusquely, a pained expression on his face. "Those cars are capable of speeds up to 240. If we don't get ahead, this chase will be over very quickly." Robin sat back in her seat, eyes wide.

The sports car flew through traffic lights, weaving in and out of lanes. Amon briefly consulted a crinkled section of a map, before tossing it aside and glancing at a road sign. "_Boulevard du Commandant_," he muttered, turning the wheel and accelerating onto an onramp. He glanced at his partner. "Head down." He sheltered the crown of her head with his hand, and she ducked obediently.

They burst onto the busy roadway, crashing through a freeway guard in the process. Cars honked and tires squealed; they narrowly missed broadsiding another small Euro car by mere inches. Amon's eyes flicked to the mirror again, to see the remaining black sedans and Toulon police continuing onto the roadway after them. The pursuing cars did not come out so unscathed; the black sedans crashed sidelong into cars, knocking them into adjacent lanes and causing even more accidents. The French police were more careful, only nicking the paint of some vehicles that were in their way.

"They're causing more damage than the police," Robin noted softly, frowning.

"SOLOMON doesn't care who gets caught in the crossfire," he reminded her; and she suddenly thought he looked very pale. He pointed at a sign up ahead of them. "We have a chance to lose them for good when we reach the connecting freeway, the _Avenue du Marchand,_ up ahead. You'll have a few moments when the road will be nearly empty save for ourselves."

"Then I will take them out," she answered, and the steel resolve in her voice caused him to spare a glance in her direction.

The black sedans increased their pace, and within moments the sound of bullets pinging the car's rear windshield could be heard. Robin kept her head ducked low, below the headrest level; but she noticed Amon's breathing coming unsteadily, his face becoming ashen white, sweat beading on his forehead. He clutched at his rib cage again with a free hand, even as he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and accelerated the car, putting a good deal of sudden distance between themselves and their pursuers.

She took his forearm firmly in her grasp and spoke with an eerily authoritative calm. "Amon, you need to let me drive, now."

"_Nani?_" he panted incredulously, as he struggled to maintain his composure. To Robin it seemed as though he was aware that something was very wrong, that his will and his body were refusing to cooperate.

She climbed carefully over the center console, sitting almost in his lap between his legs. Amon's arms began to go slack at the wheel, and she took hold of it with first one hand, then both. They were headed quickly towards the _Avenue du Marchand_ at breakneck speed.

"You're going into shock," she told him in the same measured, unruffled tone. "You need to let me get behind the wheel."

She felt his legs relax on either side of her, as well as the sudden deceleration of the car as his foot left the pedal. She replaced it with her own and pressed down hard, and the Barchetta lurched ahead, regaining its former speed. Amon's breath came in quick gasps as his eyes closed, his head tilted back against the headrest.

"Hold on, Amon," she whispered.

The connecting freeway was a five-lane, single-directional highway that spanned a quarter of a mile. The view through the rear-view mirror was now completely useless, as the back windshield had been completely mangled and distorted. _But if I can manage to turn it around…_

She braked and pulled the wheel hard to the left, spinning the small sports car around in a half-circle and accelerating through it. Up ahead, racing towards her in the oncoming traffic, were the black SOLOMON sedans and the Toulon police. The klaxons of the police sirens still blared. Agents leaned out of their passenger windows to squeeze off clean shots with semiautomatic pistols. Robin downshifted into second gear and punched the gas, heading directly for them.

_Now I can see them, clearly. _

Her eyes flashed fire as she approached them, and tires and hoods and engines of the vehicles exploded into flames. The blazing sedans and Imprezas went wildly in every direction, the passengers and drivers leaping out of their burning cars. Robin drove straight through the melee and off toward a roadside exit.

A dark-haired SOLOMON agent pulled himself from the wreckage of one of the black sedans, watching as she drove out of sight. He got to his feet shakily, straightening his jacket, and flipped open a cellular phone. "_Signore_," he gasped after a moment, between panting breaths, "we lost them."

**)O(**

Amon awoke in measured increments to the sound of running water nearby. He blinked slowly, adjusting his eyesight to the dim light of the room, and took in his surroundings. He was in a bed near the window, with blinds half-shaded even though it was twilight outside. Through the screen he could smell the salt of the ocean, and just barely hear waves breaking onto the shore. It was a peaceful and tranquil sound. The running water and a soft humming were heard from another room—most likely Robin in the bath.

He struggled to sit up, and groaned as he was made instantly aware of his injury on the left side of his rib cage. Although it had seemed more acute earlier, the damage was largely already healed. There was still stiffness and ache, but the excruciating pain that had taken his consciousness in the car was absent. He inspected the bandage covering his rib with detached curiosity; it was most likely Robin's doing.

The water in the other room abruptly shut off and Robin glided in, the white tank-top and long black skirt she was wearing drenched liberally with water. "Amon." She tore off her rubber cleaning gloves and went to his side, looking him over. "How do you feel?"

He gave her a halfhearted smirk, more because of her wet tank-top than anything else. "I've been worse." He glanced around again from the bed, not attempting this time to rise. "Where are we?"

"_Le Mourillon_, by the water," she replied softly, and reached a gentle hand to stroke a lock of his hair away from his forehead. "You were barely conscious from your injury." Her words held the faintest hint of reproach. "You should have told me earlier."

His eyes lowered apologetically. "_Suman_. I had underestimated it." He looked back into her eyes. "How did you move me? And the car…?"

"The car is gone, I've abandoned it. The owner of the inn helped me pull you from it," she said quietly, sitting beside him on the bed. "He wanted to transport you to a hospital, but I knew SOLOMON would be combing them, and I knew you would heal faster if you were left alone and just given rest—"

Amon's eyes narrowed, looked away from hers at some obscure spot in the dimly lit room. "So, you know, then."

She was silent, and he went on, "About my ability to heal."

"Amon, I have known since we escaped Factory that you are capable of regeneration. When you were shot with Zaizen's Orbo—"

His gaze returned to her, surprise evident in his features. His voice was soft with wonder. "I thought you'd forgotten that."

Robin shook her head gently. "I remembered that clearly. I was very frightened for you…until I saw you stand as though it hadn't bothered you, and I realized you weren't harmed." A hesitant but teasing half-smile appeared on her lips. "You're indestructible."

At her words he gave a low sigh. "I'd hardly call passing out while driving 'indestructible'." He struggled to sit upright, and she helped him, propping his pillow up behind his back. "There are still many things I don't know about my own abilities," he went on, thoughtfully staring into space ahead of him.

Robin leaned against the headboard beside him. "I think it will be as it was with my own powers; there are things you are capable of, but you may not be aware of them until the situation distinctly calls for them. You just need to be patient, Amon."

As it often did, her maturity left him momentarily speechless. Amon didn't dwell on the irony of Robin assuming the role of his tutor, where his own Craft was concerned; too many things had happened within the last couple of months to now put them on the same, level playing field. She was no more his instructor now than he had been hers long ago—now they were both simultaneously adults and children, learning and discovering together, like pioneers. Like the last of their kind.

Instead he allowed his gaze to roam over her, her chestnut-blonde head bowed in thought, green eyes lowered, the white tank-top having become translucent against her skin and revealing the shape of her body. "Now that we've been discovered, we should leave France as soon as possible," he stated quietly, more to distract himself from his own wandering thoughts.

"Where are we going to go?"

"Barring a few things I need to take care of first, I think it is time we returned to Sovana," he replied, carefully watching her expression. "Your grandmother told us that people will be expecting us there soon."

Curiously, she did not seem as enthusiastic about the prospect as he'd anticipated. She lowered her eyes again in thought. "_Nani?_" he asked, quietly.

"I'm anxious to see Jana again. But…these people that will be waiting for us, these Witches," she answered slowly, "they will want things from us." She looked up and met his eyes again. "What if they're not like us? What if they want things I cannot give them?" Her countenance became saddened. "What if they go against me?"

"They would be foolish to do that," he reminded her, reaching out beside him to run his thumb gently along her cheek. "And if they did, they would have to contend with me."

Her half-smile returned at his words, turning into a gasp of pleasure as he leaned in to touch his lips to hers in a slow, chaste kiss. He withdrew gently, as she almost protested, and wound his arm around her, pulling her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder. She curled her arm about his bare chest in response, hearing him sigh and relax against her.

A few moments went by, during which she listened to the comforting thudding of his heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his breath, in contrast to the soft breaking of waves in the distance outside. She was content to remain like this for an eternity, if she could.

"Amon," she finally whispered, having garnered the courage to ask what she had meant to for days, "can I sleep next to you tonight?"

No response, save for his deep and even breathing; and Robin realized he was asleep.

She closed her eyes contentedly. _I guess the answer is yes._

* * *

Italian/other: 

_bene_: good  
_chigau: _wrong, it's not like that (lit. "different")  
_iie_: no  
_È__coutez!_: (French) look out!  
_nani?_: what?  
_suman_: sorry

* * *

**Today** is the last day to vote at the **UFO** (Universal Fanfiction Open) awards! _The Burning Time_ is up for best in category, for Witch Hunter Robin fanfiction. The direct link is in my profile. Show your TBT support, and go vote before the end of August 31! 

Stay tuned for more HG coming soon…the next chapter (chapter 2) will be posted here for an R-rated version, and will have an **NC-17** version up at **The Renewal** site. I'll make sure to directly link to it in my profile as well. Til then!


	3. Chapter 2: Sleepwalking

**A/N:** Oh my god…I finally updated! You all thought I'd forgotten about this story, hadn't you?

It's not as long of a writing piece as what I normally produce, but we're still in the first few chapters of the story; and like TBT, this will pick up and become lengthy very soon. And I *do* plan on continuing to work on it. And preferably not waiting two years between chapters. *cringe*

Anyway, enjoy! (And ps - check out hieros_gamos on LJ! New layout!)

* * *

_sleepwalking, on the highwire  
__sleepwalking,  
__into the open palm of the empty sky_

—Siouxie and the Banshees

* * *

**)O(**

**Florence, Italy  
****June 6, 6:35pm**

"_Scusi_. Flight 242, from Florence to Marseille, France, is now boarding its first-class passengers at gate 7B. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. We will begin boarding our economy-class passengers in approximately twenty minutes. _Grazie_."

At the sound of the airport intercom's pleasant drone, the blond man folded his newspaper and set it on the empty seat beside him. A fashionably attired brunette woman, seated across from him in the small waiting area, watched admiringly as he busied himself with gathering his belongings and managed to hold a cellular phone conversation while doing so. He was well dressed, attractive, with noble features and captivating ice-blue eyes. His smile would be devastatingly sexy, she surmised, even though at the present moment his countenance was solemn and serious. _All business_, she mused. _Maybe an investment banker, or perhaps a lawyer?_ With curiosity, she noted the scar along his right cheek—the only blemish marring his perfect complexion.

Oblivious to his female admirer he stood, holding his briefcase, and headed toward the gate while still in the midst of his phone dialogue.

The Cardinal on the other end of the line was very concerned. "_We need to have this situation taken care of with the utmost haste, Seth. The longer we wait to dispose of them, the more perilous the disruption of the balance becomes."_

"My operatives have already located them in the south of France," Seth responded as he walked. "I am heading there this moment, to take care of this problem where it lies."

"_You have a rather surprising amount of confidence in your newly-assembled team's ability to deal with the Eve and her mate,_" Cardinal De Luca noted with disdain. "_She made short order of your last one. __Be sure your bravado is not misplaced_."

"I assure you, Your Eminence, it will not take much longer to apprehend the girl and her warden."

"_And _**I **_want to ensure that we have your word that they will be turned over to us_ **immediately** _if they are captured_," the Cardinal seethed dangerously, not so easily convinced. "_Vasile made certain he'd recorded your duplicity. __I__ will not be as forgiving as he was, God rest his soul."_

Seth had just reached the ticket agent at the gate, boarding pass and passport in hand, and had opened his mouth to form some sort of retaliation to the Cardinal, when he abruptly glanced behind him and froze in his tracks. Across the busy airport hallway, hadn't he just seen a glimpse of a girl—long loose chestnut-blonde hair, pale skin, a dark dress so long that the hem trailed on the floor with her footsteps—disappearing around a corner?

"_Signore_," the ticket agent demanded, her hand held out expectantly. In his ear, Seth heard the Cardinal repeating his name with ever-increasing impatience. His gaze was still fixated on the last spot he'd just seen the young red-haired woman. After another moment, he sprang into action.

"I'll call you back." He closed his cellular—to the squawking protests of the Cardinal still on the other line—and quickly headed backwards through the line formed behind him, away from the airline gate. "I'll be back, hold the plane for me," he instructed the indignant ticket agent in sharp Italian. Seth charged ahead, increasing the pace of his stride, never taking his eyes off the last spot he'd seen her.

Is it…

He rounded the corner, breathless and anticipating, and witnessed her disappearing around another corner on her left. He caught just a glimpse again of her hair and the distinctive black and gray pilgrim's dress that she'd worn so often. He'd know it anywhere.

_Robin_.

He sprinted down the corridor, pushing his way past airport travelers and their luggage, and made a sharp left in the direction he'd seen her go—thinking she would turn around any minute at hearing his running footsteps behind her—but to his shock, it wasn't Robin who had turned to confront him. A quick startled glance around the near vicinity told him the Eve was nowhere to be seen. A completely different girl stood facing him; shorter in stature than the fire witch, curvier, clad in street clothes. Her hair was lighter than Robin's and hung down her back in pale blonde waves. Her eyes were a coffee-colored brown.

Seth stared at her mutely. He was frozen to the spot in confusion, the only sound being his labored breathing from his short run.

"_Mi chiamo Arella_," she said matter-of-factly, as if he'd asked for an introduction. Her voice was sharp and perfunctory. "I don't need to tell you how I know your name is Seth, and that you are with SOLOMON. But you need to listen very carefully to the remainder of what I am about to say."

"How do you know me?" he asked with a frown, disobediently. She ignored it.

"You are being closely watched," she said as she took a single step toward him. "You need to tread very carefully from now onwards. And if you make any moves to harm the Queen, rest assured there will be hell to pay."

His mouth gaped. "The Queen?" he repeated dumbly.

"The time has come for her to come into her power. We have no qualms about what we will need to do to defend her and her reign. Just know that whatever attempt is made against her, we will not hesitate to unleash the same upon you in retribution, _threefold_." She held his gaze firmly with her own.

"Remember that, Seth." And with a last hard look from her deceptively soft-looking brown eyes, she turned away and began to walk.

The intercom suddenly blared in his ears—the impatient airline attendant shouting that his plane was about to leave the gate, and _would the blond gentleman in First Class __**please**__ come and claim his seat?_—and his attention was diverted for the fraction of a second he'd turned his head to listen to it. When he turned back in Arella's departing direction, she had disappeared into the crowd.

She couldn't have run fast enough for him not to see her, and she couldn't have just vanished. Panicked, he spun round in a circle, eyeing every woman busily pushing past him or walking away from him in the airport corridor. None of them were her—at least, none of them he could _recognize_. He raked a hand roughly through his hair in frustration.

After a few irrationally paranoid moments, Seth finally composed himself, taking a deep breath and schooling his features. He adjusted the necktie of his dark business suit and stiffly and reluctantly returned to his waiting plane.

**)O(**

**Rome, Italy  
****June 7, 2:24 am**

Michael fidgeted with his airline-issued headphones, grumbling to himself as he tried to get a decent sample of music from the in-flight radio stations. He impatiently pushed and punched the metal buttons in his armrest, to no avail. Next to him, arms folded about his chest as he tried to feign some semblance of sleep, Haruto Sakaki opened one eye and leveled it at him, growing more annoyed by the millisecond.

"God_damnit_," Michael muttered darkly as he gave the armrest a final infuriated shove, and reached down by his feet to fish his iPod out of his travel bag. "Their music is such shit."

"Yeah, well I don't know why you didn't just get your own music out to begin with in the first place," Haruto retorted angrily, both eyes open. "You could have saved us both the irritation."

"Oh, _gomen nasai, _Sakaki-san," Michael bit out with malicious sarcasm. "I didn't realize I was such a _burden_ to you."

"You're a burden to everyone, with the way you're always complaining all the damn time!"

"_Sou ka._ Why don't you go sit over there next to Miss Karasuma, then, Haruto?" Michael asked deviously, motioning his head in Miho's direction before he appeared to have a sudden revelation. "Oh wait, that's right—because she'd rather sit next to the Chief than she would next to you!"

Haruto looked as though he were about to come to blows as he turned in his seat and faced the boy next to him. "You better shut your fucking mouth, if you know what's good for you!"

Across the airplane aisle from them, next to a sleeping (and snoring) Kosaka, Miho sat staring out the small oval window at the darkened sky outside, chin in her hand. She could hear their bickering, clear as day, but she dared not reprimand or scold either of them. Both Haruto and Michael's emotions were wound up so tightly she thought they might explode.

It was the same for her, but Miho had years of practice at controlling and hiding her feelings under her belt. When you were psychometric, it didn't do much good to let on that you had the ability to tap into another's deepest and most hidden sentiments.

Part of it, she knew, was nerves. They were to land in Rome in approximately half an hour…_then what?_ It was blatantly obvious that the two newly designated SOLOMON 'high-priority targets' were in fact Amon and Robin—the video recording they'd watched was real, after all—and that Headquarters had recalled the STN-J to Italy to be assigned to their hunt. After all, no one would quite know the two reticent ex-hunters as well as their old colleagues. She knew Michael and Sakaki recoiled at the prospect; Kosaka was strangely silent and evasive about the entire thing.

But none of them had any choice in the matter. What Miho had grown to fear since the two of them had disappeared from the Factory's collapse site months ago seemed as though it were quickly becoming a reality. They were to hunt Amon and Robin.

How could they even _think_ of hunting their former teammates?

The notion was repellent, and yet…she herself had stood within her own moment of weakness in Zaizen's office not so long ago, when he'd revealed Toudou's taped message, telling her Robin was a mistake, the "perfect witch", an aberration to be erased. Now she had seen for herself, with her own eyes, the physical evidence of just how destructive the girl-Witch could be…not to mention blatant evidence that Amon had aided her. It was something that was hard to turn a blind eye to. She had no doubt that SOLOMON would have a slight problem with it as well.

Miho covered her eyes tiredly with her hand. She had hoped they would never be found—that they would have run off together somewhere, anywhere, away from SOLOMON's influence if it were even remotely possible—that they would have kept themselves safe and below the radar. She'd heard and remembered every word spoken on Hiroshi Toudou's tape that fateful night in the Factory; how Robin was the Eve of Witches and would revitalize the emergence of their kind. Surely Amon had realized how much of a threat she was to SOLOMON's entire existence.

_**Why**__ did they go to Italy? What were they thinking, leaving Japan to end up in the home country of the organization's headquarters?_ As an ex-hunter himself, Amon should have known better.

_But perhaps_, Miho mused, momentarily recalling a stubborn, chestnut-blonde teenaged will, _the decision hadn't been entirely up to him…_

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her name. Amazingly, Haruto and Michael had stopped fighting for the moment, and were both calling to her from across the aisle to get her attention. Kosaka, separating them, slept blissfully on even through the noise around him.

"Miss Karasuma," Michael was asking, "are we finally going to see her in Rome?"

She blinked in confusion. "Who?"

"_Madame_ Doujima," he answered, a deliberately theatrical tone to his voice. "We haven't heard from her in a month since she went back. Will we be seeing her there?"

Miho lowered her eyes and felt his gaze on her, as well as Haruto's interested stare. "I don't know, Michael," she replied honestly. "None of us—including the Chief—have been in contact with Yurika for some time now. It's safe to say that she might have taken another assignment elsewhere."

Both Michael and Haruto's faces fell, and Miho felt a pang of regret for them. Although she had been nowhere to be found during the terrifying Orbo raid on STN-J months earlier, Yurika Doujima had been very active with the group following the incident—almost as if she were repentant for her absence. She had bonded strongly with the two young men, particularly with Haruto, and now they keenly missed her presence.

Miho sat back dejectedly in her seat. It was just one more disappointment to them, she supposed, to prepare them for the disaster of what lay ahead.

Half an hour later, they were landing at Leonardo Da Vinci airport in Fiumicino. It was only Miho's second visit to Headquarters, since her training two years earlier; it was Haruto's and Michael's first, she reminded herself. The group watched curiously from the windows as they taxied from the runway to the gate. Beside them, Kosaka snorted and spontaneously woke himself, clearing his throat noisily.

The glittering glass and steel of the terminal's design flashed intermittently with the airport's lights, even through the pitch darkness. Roving searchlights revealed armed guards at the lower entrances of each gate, with bullet-proof vests and Beretta AR-70 assault rifles.

By the time the group had shuffled out of the docked plane and made their way mechanically up to the gate, the apprehensive feeling in Miho's gut had become a solid mass of dread. There was no one to meet them at the gate's entrance. Amidst the harsh and glaring indoor light of the terminal she wormed her way tiredly through throngs of people, Kosaka, Haruto and Michael close behind her.

The four of them made their way solemnly down two floors on the escalator to collect their luggage. At the last bend the baggage claim area came into view and they could now see a figure perched casually on the edge of the roundabout, one elegant crossed leg dangling and chin cupped in her hand.

As they stepped off the escalator, Haruto and Michael nearly dropped their shoulder bags in surprise. Miho simply stared, her mouth gaping open in amazement.

Kosaka was the only one who spoke. "_D-doujima-kun!_"

"_Well,_" Yurika Doujima drawled sarcastically, tossing her blonde hair behind her and sitting upright to face them. "It's about _time_ you guys showed up." She yawned and stretched dramatically, grinning like the Cheshire cat, and all of her former comrades broke into relieved and surprised smiles. "You know I'm losing out on my beauty sleep!"

**)O(**

**Le Mourillon, France  
****June 7, 4:18 am**

Shirtless, clad only in the soft, rumpled pants he had been sleeping in, he stood at the glass-paned patio doors that led to the small balcony and stared out at the dark sky outside. Amon had a flash of _deja-vu _as he stood at the partially-open doors and looked out into the night, and felt as though he'd done the same not too long before—_had it only been a week ago?_

He could still hear the whispering waves of the ocean three stories below behind him. Even closer, he could hear the quiet sound of Robin's breathing, as she lay still deeply asleep on the bed, swathed in covers. He turned his head slightly to listen to the tranquil rise and fall of her breaths. His hearing seemed eerily and rather suddenly fine-tuned; almost as though currents of air around him were concentrating the sounds, carrying them to his ear.

Her long black skirt and tank top—as well as her underwear—were on the floor; she'd shed them in her sleep, again. She never had been able to tolerate the constriction of clothes between the sheets. When he'd first woken to find her nude beside him, it had taken all of his willpower to extract himself and slip out of bed. It hadn't been his preferred course of action.

Smirking faintly, he turned back to the balcony before him again and looked down upon the dimly lit streets of the city. Le Mourillon was a small oceanside town, but it still had many villas such as the one they were staying in, as well as residential hotels and homes. There weren't many cars on the road at this hour, before sunrise; it was a long time before the morning commute. It was silent, all but the faintest of background noises muted—so much so that his extraordinarily-heightened hearing could pick up the leaves on the trees below trembling and rustling.

Amon opened the doors further and stepped outside onto the stone balcony. The cool nighttime air washed over him in a rush, the wind whipping his dark hair and startling his senses. It seemed to beckon him, as it had that fateful day he'd awoken in Siena; he heard it whispering to him, calling to him through the trees above the dark streets. The pull was strong, and he went to the edge to lean against the metal rail, looking out into the pitch of the night.

_Amon. _

Surprised, he leaned even further, straining to hear. It had definitely been a voice saying his name, on the breeze…

Amon cast one last glance behind him at the partially-hidden girl in the bedroom, before turning back to the darkness. He climbed carefully over the guard rail, swinging his other leg over as he held onto it from the other side. The wind picked up again and tousled his hair. He took a long, protracted breath.

And then he let go.

**)O(**

She awoke sometime before dawn to the feel of his hands traveling over her—gentle, roaming, moving slowly along her ankle and up the length of her leg, seeking shelter in the curves where her covers were tucked over her bare skin. Robin stirred, and opened her eyes to see him hovering over her on the bed.

"Amon?" she asked quietly, still groggy with sleep. She turned over so that she could see him better, noting he was shirtless and his hair mussed and wild, windblown. Her eyes widened and came into focus. "What is it?"

He nodded wordlessly and continued his exploration of her skin, fingers stroking her bare arm as though it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Robin felt a pang of nervousness wash over her—this wasn't like him. She looked carefully into his eyes and saw they were glassy, pupils dilated. _Had he been drugged?_ "…Amon?"

"It's loud," he whispered absently, trailing his fingers from her elbow up to her bare white shoulder; she shivered slightly. "So loud…can you hear it?" He cocked his head, listening. "I didn't notice it before, but now it seems deafening to me." One finger traced the shape of her collarbone above the sheet's edge and followed it to the slope of her neck.

"Hear what?" As confused as she was, his touch paralyzed her, made her breathless. She didn't want him to stop, regardless of what motivated him. "…I don't hear anything, Amon…"

He regarded her dreamily, his expression soft but at the same time intensely serious. "It's on the wind," he explained. He tucked a long expanse of her chestnut hair behind her ear, cradling her cheek and brushing his thumb against the downy softness of it over and over again. "It's in the dark, out there…"

"Is that where you've been?" Robin asked patiently, trying not to shudder with pleasure. "You've been…out in the dark?" His skin was cool to the touch—he must have been outside, at least for the last hour or so.

She raised a tentative hand to his at her cheek, feeling him. "You do feel a bit cold…would you like me to warm you up?"

It was an innocent enough question, but Amon apparently had other ideas about gaining warmth. He moved to cover her entirely, sliding his legs over either side of her, bracing himself with his arms and pressing the lower half of him into her; Robin, in her surprise, went limp in response and slid back against the pillows underneath him. She was suddenly very aware of his body against hers, of his weight and height and muscle, of the heat of his breath and the sleekness of his chest as it brushed against hers through the sheet.

"Do you hear it, yet?" he was asking her, his voice a low purr in her ear, and she couldn't imagine how he was not aware of what he was doing. He brushed his lips gently against the side of her head as he settled himself against her, hip to hip. "Do you see? It's permeating, surrounding—it's _everywhere_."

Before she could reply he ducked his head and sealed his mouth with hers. She gasped against it, briefly scrabbling for purchase amidst the sheets before her body relaxed into him and her hands sought his back, clinging. He kissed her deeply, his tongue probing and gentle, and Robin lost whatever uncertainty she'd immediately felt and responded with eagerness. She parted her lips further, undulating underneath him so that their hips aligned, her legs on either side of him; he was hard enough through the soft cloth of his pajama pants that she could feel every inch of him against her.

"_O-oh_," she whispered against his mouth, feeling her temperature spike suddenly. Her face felt feverishly hot.

The feel of them pressed together so intimately must have jolted Amon out of his strange reverie, because he suddenly broke the kiss and looked down at her beneath him, gray eyes slitted with concern. "…_Robin_," he panted, "…what are you doing?"

_Now_ he was asking her this? "_Nani?_" she whispered, her confidence abating only for a moment before her body's need reasserted itself. She moved against him once more, ingenuous and insistent. "You came in…" she started to explain.

He attempted to retreat, looking a little bewildered. "This isn't—" His voice cut off with a soft grunt as she held onto him fiercely. "Robin, _let go_. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have done—"

She released him reluctantly as he rolled over onto his back, away from her on the bed. Her brows were knit together in consternation; a frustrated, teenaged pout, a single word on her lips as her slight chest heaved. "…_Why?_"

Amon didn't answer. He sat back against the headboard and breathed, allowed his own breaths to return to normal as he looked around the room and anywhere but at her. She raised herself on her forearms next to him.

"…Amon…"

"We can't do this, not yet," he told her firmly, his voice low and taut as he turned to her again and held her gaze. "Do you understand?"

Her gaze traveled over him; his stern lower lip, his pale and heaving chest, the evidence of his excitement prominently visible through his pants. She didn't understand this at all, with him—this forward and backwards, this vacillation. "No," she said softly, finally, "I don't."

He cupped her cheek and chin in one hand, still breathing soft gusts of exhale through his nose. "Because if we're not careful—and I don't know that I can be, right now—there will be a child."

She shook her head. "I still don't understa—"

"I'm not ready to be a father, Robin."

…_Oh. _Without knowing distinctly why, she felt her heart sinking, as though leaden weights dragged it down through her body into the bed beneath her.

Robin admitted to herself that such a prospect _had_ crossed her mind since the events in Siena a week earlier—_no, even before that_, she confessed. Of course she wasn't as naïve to think such activities didn't have consequences, and what those consequences were. But…she had thought that Amon had thought them through as well. He was nothing if not thorough. And if he'd said he would never leave her side…

"Why?" she asked again, quietly. Then: "Is it because of your past?" He pulled his hand away, shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and she knew she'd gotten to the root of the matter.

Amon looked as though he were trying on words in his head. "…I can't even imagine it," he answered, his voice low and honest as he stared at a corner of the bedroom wall. "What kind of parent I could possibly be…I've lived so long without a functioning family, without relational ties."

"Nagira," she pointed out, referencing his half-brother, but Amon dismissed the name with a short shake of his head.

"Nagira and I have never been close," he replied. "I trust him, yes, especially now, but…it was very different between us, him and I, for a long time." His voice grew thoughtful and far-away.

Robin sat up to view him better, drew her knees up underneath the sheet as she reclined against the headboard. "I've never had one either." When he looked at her questioningly, she went on. "A family. But I think—" she recalled Jana's story of Aradia, of the young girl wishing for children like the happy nest of baby birds, and she looked back up at him hopefully, "—I think, that I would like to have one."

He frowned, but she could detect a faint incredulity underneath it. "You've just barely turned sixteen."

"I've been sixteen for three months."

"Robin, it doesn't make any sense. It's dangerous. On the run from a multinational organization is not an ideal situation for children."

She set her lips sternly. "That is not a reason to not have them."

His sigh sounded mildly irritated. "_I_ don't want them; that is the reason not to have them. This discussion ends now." She tried to conceal what was surely a look of plaintive hurt on her face. Unsuccessfully, most like it, given the tightening of his features. "I'm going to call in some favors later today or tomorrow before we leave, and procure something that will take care of this issue."

"…Take care of it?" Robin queried softly, her curiosity piqued despite her resentment.

His voice was gentle again, his eyes as he regarded her still stern, but with an underlying melancholy. "Surely you don't want me to keep you at arm's length, anymore."

She shook her head, a thrill passing like a tremor through her body. Although they had just argued and he hadn't conceded to her, there was no part of her that didn't want to be closer to him, to feel him, to be joined with him in all ways possible. The thought of it alone made her flush.

"I've never wanted that, Amon," she whispered, all raw honesty. His eyes changed, and he reached out a hand again to trace the down of her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

She decided to tentatively change tactics. "Why did you sound so strange, when you first woke me up?"

Amon blinked, features falling neutral. "I'm not sure," he responded carefully. "What was I saying?"

"You were talking about something you heard, in the dark…on the wind, outside."

He paused, digesting her words and seemed to visually play back the scene in his head. "I think that I heard something calling me, on the wind," he answered slowly, "and I went to answer it."

Robin cocked her head. "Perhaps it was something relating to your Craft," she reasoned, leaning further into his stroking hand. "A memory, perhaps."

He sighed, the sound sleepier than before. "I'm sure that whatever's happening, it's your doing, somehow." She bristled a bit in surprise, but the look in his eyes told her he was toying with her—teasing her, a bit.

"Mm." The sound she made was noncommittal, as though she had simply brushed his comment off.

"It will probably take a week or so before it's safe to do anything," he said, cryptically as his fingers traced her jawline and then her neck, and again Robin wondered at what was to be procured. "But in the meantime, there are…other things we can do." It took her a moment to realize his enigmatic smirk held a hint of the lascivious behind it.

The Eve of Witches gave her own quirked half-smile in return.

"Perhaps we can play a game of chess tomorrow, then." She clasped his stroking hand in hers and kissed his palm, before turning over away from him in bed and snuggling down into the comforter. "_Buona notte_."

She heard him snort, partly in indignation, partly in amusement, and she could see his barely-there grin behind her closed eyes as she drifted off again to sleep.

**)O(**

* * *

Italian/Japanese:

_scusi_: excuse me  
_grazie_: thank you  
_mi chiamo_: my name is  
_gomen nasai_: please excuse me  
_sou ka_: is that so  
_nani?_: what?  
_buona notte: _good night


End file.
